


No Room to Grow

by coricomile



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:19:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Gwen isn’t the only one with a life outside of Torchwood, you know.” Ianto sniffs delicately. There’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek, right below his eye. Jack refuses to point it out. Dirty suits him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Room to Grow

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Ianto has been disappearing, Jack follows him one night and discovers Ianto's secret in the form of a hard blues band named Blue Gillespie.
> 
> Gareth's band is lovely. I suggest looking up lyrics because they're _gems_. Here's a [performance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLBidR62zGw).

“Dinner?” Jack asks, narrowing his eyes through his glasses at the fine print. His eyes have gotten worse over the centuries, and he imagines it will only continue. There’s lasik, which he’s contemplated, and if he waits for a while longer, he knows full reboots will be available eventually. 

But he kind of likes the glasses. They make him look dignified. And Ianto’s always had a soft spot for them. He can hang onto them for the next few decades. 

“Ah, no.” Ianto tucks the dry dishrag into his back pocket and wrinkles his nose. He’s been trying to get the dust off the top shelf for hours, grunting and swearing at the mess. Jack doesn’t mind the view, and Ianto cranky is one of his favorite sights. “Not tonight.”

“Plans?” Jack asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Gwen isn’t the only one with a life outside of Torchwood, you know.” Ianto sniffs delicately. There’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek, right below his eye. Jack refuses to point it out. Dirty suits him. 

“Date?” Jack asks with a sly grin. 

He’s never been a jealous man, but he is surprised. Ianto had always seemed like the utterly devoted type. He’s been keeping his bed empty- time constraints and respect leading him over and over again to Ianto’s side. He’d thought after they’d started going out on proper dates it followed that they were a proper quaint little couple, but he wouldn’t stand in the way of a nice woman or naughty man. 

“Hilarious,” Ianto says dryly. “Not a date. Just a prior engagement. Is that a problem, sir?”

“I love it when you get defensive.” Jack pushes his glasses up over his forehead and leans back in his chair. If anything, he can get to his emails. There’s a backlog that would terrify the Queen. “Go. Be young.” Ianto rolls his eyes, but he steps forward and presses a quick kiss to Jack’s temple. 

“Breakfast before work?” He asks, even as he gathers his jacket. Jack grins and goes back to his paperwork. 

“Come early. I’ll be hungry.”

\---

“Could we maybe try to blow the next one up outside?” Ianto asks from the floor. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, yellow rubber gloves pulled up over his forearms. He scrubs angrily at the purple ooze on the concrete. 

“I’ll get right on that,” Owen drawls. He’s half covered in slime, his white labcoat going lavender. “Excuse me nasty alien thing, could you step outside? Don’t want to get muck on the tile.”

“Couldn’t hurt.” Ianto dunks his scrub brush and moves on to the next patch. There’s ooze in his hair. Jack wonders if it’ll stain. 

“Not like you have anything on,” Owen complains. He lifts a scalpel and sighs in disgust. “I’ve been working on a nice blonde thing for days. Gone all to hell with this.”

“Why does everyone think I live only to muck out the cells?” Ianto asks. The brush hits the floor with more force than necessary. “I’m not the one that lives here.”

“Could have fooled me,” Owen mutters. He dumps his surgical tray into a bucket with a crash and sighs. “I’m out. I’ll do the rest in the morning.”

“Sure you will.” Ianto sits back on his heels and looks at his watch. It’s something he’s been doing a lot of lately. At first, Jack had worried. Ianto’s done nothing but prove himself as loyal time and time again, but there’s always going to be that worry at the back of his brain. Once fooled. 

“Got somewhere to be?” Jack asks. Ianto blinks up at him and shrugs.

“Nothing important,” he says, lips tight. He’s got half the floor done, but the bay’s still got a long way to go. 

“Nothing important like a footie game, or nothing important like a date?” Jack asks. Owen shakes his bucket to remind them that he’s still there. Jack ignores him. 

“Still not a date,” Ianto says. “Stop asking about dates.”

“I’d rather not with your domestic.” Owen sets his bucket next to the steps and peels out of his coat. His clothes are mostly unscathed. 

“The door’s open,” Ianto says darkly. “Feel free to use it.” Owen flips two fingers at him, but scampers off as soon as he can. Jack waits for the door to close before stepping down into the autopsy bay. The goo smells like vanilla, which is a pleasant upturn from the usual fare. 

“Go on,” Jack says, prodding at Ianto’s backside with his boot. He sinks down next to him and pries the brush from his hand. 

“This is going to take all night.” Ianto looks around at the splatter on the walls, shoulders sinking. He looks tired, all bruised eyes and pale skin. Jack would like to take him to bed and make him nap, but he knows a losing battle before he’s started. “Can you get more water? This has gone off.”

“Scoot.” Jack flicks purple gray water at Ianto’s face and grins at the stony stare he receives in return. “Take a shower. Do your thing. I’ll take care of this.”

“It’s my job.” Ianto runs a gloved hand through his hair, frowning at the sticky mess he finds. 

“And I’m your boss. Go.” Jack swats Ianto’s ass. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me.”

“I’m sure.” Ianto peels off his gloves and pushes himself to his feet. Jack watches him go. He presses down on the brush and sighs. He hates cleanup.

\---

“I have to go,” Ianto says, mouth slick against Jack’s throat. He’s barechested and beautiful, flushed all the way down to his waistband. Jack pulls him in closer, grinding against him. It’s been a long day, and he’s been waiting for this moment since he woke up. 

“Half an hour,” Jack says. He slides his hand over the swell of Ianto’s ass, feeling him through the fine wool of his trousers. “Fifteen minutes if you keep doing that.”

“Need to leave now.” Ianto’s voice breaks off into a moan. He bites down onto the tendon of Jack’s throat. Jack growls. 

“You’re giving me a complex here,” he says. If he doesn’t get more skin in the next few minutes, he’s going to pop. 

“I’ll give you double tomorrow.” Ianto kisses Jack’s jaw and steps back. He runs a hand through his hair, taking a few deep breaths. His trousers are tented. Jack reaches forward, but Ianto dances away from him. “Swear it.”

“I could be dead tomorrow.” Jack flops down onto the couch and presses the heel of his palm against his erection. “Corpses don’t get orgasms.”

“I think you’ll be fine.” Ianto pulls on his shirt and does up half the buttons. Jack wants to take a picture of him like this, disheveled and wanton and _leaving_. Ianto swoops in and kisses him again before jogging out the door. 

Jack slides a hand into his pants. It’s not as good alone, but waste not, want not. 

\---

Jack is on a mission. 

He follows the signal on Ianto’s mobile, hunched in against the cold. His coat is tucked away in the SUV, too obvious a silhouette to be worn. He’s not proud of himself, but that’s nothing new. Ianto’s disappearing act has gotten stale, and he’s going to get to the bottom of it tonight. 

The signal leads him to the Buffalo Bar. Jack blinks up at the sign. Not a place that he’d imagine Ianto going, but not out of the question. He pops inside, looking over the dining area. There’s no sign of familiar suit, but the signal is strong. He tucks his mobile into his pocket and sits on a stool at the bar. 

“Hello there, gorgeous,” Jack says to the bartender. The young man gives him a once over before flashing him a smile. 

“What’s for you?” He asks. He leans in, and Jack grins at him. 

“Looking for someone,” Jack says. He does feel a little bad when the bartender’s shoulders slump. 

“Course you are,” he sighs. 

“My height, suit, stiff around the shoulders, devastatingly handsome.” Jack looks back over the dining room again, but it’s nothing but a sea of unfamiliar faces. 

“Sorry,” the bartender says. “Haven’t seen him. He might be upstairs. Got a show on tonight. Some heavy metal thing.” Jack tries not to snicker at the idea of Ianto listening to Tool in his flat. Still, it’s worth having a look. 

“Thanks.” He tosses a fiver onto the bar and follows the hallway to a staircase. The faint sound of music sinks through the door. 

Upstairs is dark and smoky, half filled with twenty-somethings in t-shirts and denims. The music is loud, if not particularly great. Bluesy and dark. Very emo chic. Jack scans the crowd for Ianto, but comes up empty again. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and checks again. Unless Ianto’s left his phone behind in a booth somewhere, he’s still in the building. 

“Bit nervous,” says a voice from the stage, and Jack’s head snaps up. “Never been a headliner. Thanks for being patient with us.” 

And there he is. Ianto Jones, steadfast, professional Ianto Jones in a tight t-shirt and loose, sagging denims, cradling a microphone to his chest and squinting against the blue lights shining down on him. Jack sinks into a chair, ignoring the girls chirping beside him, and blinks. Huh. 

“Last one of the night,” Ianto says, tipping his head back. He’s wearing a fedora. It’s battered and dark, nothing Jack’s ever seen him in. He takes a swig from the beer bottle near his feet before shaking his head. “Thanks again.” A few people near the stage cheer. 

Jack watches as the band starts up. Ianto is loose, swaying to the beat, sweat glistening across his forehead. When he opens his mouth, Jack’s floored by the sound that comes out. It’s not so much singing as it is growling, both Ianto’s hands wrapped around the microphone. 

Halfway through, he starts screaming, a guttural sound that reverberates through the sound system. Jack can’t make out the words- between the thickness of Ianto’s accent and the reverb through the microphone- but it really, really doesn’t matter. 

Ianto’s shirt rides up, baring the soft skin of his belly. It looks preternaturally pale in the dim light, and Jack wants to sink his teeth into it. The man playing bass steps into Ianto’s space and grinds up next to him. Ianto flicks his tongue against the head of the microphone, dirty and wanton and _not Ianto-like at all_. 

Jack’s going to tie him to something and torture him for holding out. The bastard. 

“Have a good night,” Ianto says when the music finally cuts off. A few more cheers go up. “Albums in the back, if you’re looking. Rhys' got a baby. Feed it.”

Jack slips into the corner, stealing a water bottle of the table for a prop. He watches Ianto climb off the stage, his shirt sticking wetly to his back and biceps. Two women step up to him and Ianto laughs. He hugs them both one armed, keeping his chest away from them. Jack bristles and doesn’t completely know why.

Ianto sits at the table in the back with the other men from the band, grinning and making small talk as he peddles shrink wrapped CDs. All the tension he keeps in him at Torchwood is gone. He looks like a regular twenty-four year old, and it’s staggering. Ianto’s never been just a normal anything. 

When the few lingering bodies remaining eventually move away, Jack picks up a CD and pulls a few notes out of his wallet. Ianto reaches for the cash, already starting a thanks, but stops short when he looks up. His mouth falls open before abruptly snapping shut.

“Jack.” He sits up straighter in his chair, all sudden perfect posture and professional face. It’s a bit of a blow. Jack’s seen him naked more times than he can count. Seeing him loose-limbed and in his- surprising- element shouldn’t be a thing he has to fight for. 

“Good show,” Jack says, grinning. One of Ianto’s bandmates looks between them before taking Jack’s money and tucking it into the cashbox on the table. Jack waves him away when he tries to hand back change. 

“Thank you,” Ianto says. He doesn’t meet Jack’s eyes, even when Jack drops his head. “If you don’t mind, I’ll start breaking down.” He scampers off, hands jammed into his pockets. It drags his denims down even farther, exposing the dark gray of his pants. 

“So,” Jack says, flipping the CD over to look at the cover. It’s not a great shot, clearly done by someone’s brother or cousin in an alley, but Ianto looks broody and unerringly sexy. Jack’s going to request he wear more bracelets in the future. “How long have you been together?”

“Going on four years,” the bassist says. He twists the wedding band on his left hand and shrugs. “Started in my mum’s garage and just kind of went from there. Only really started to get gigs the last few months. Ianto’s got some civil service job that keeps him late, and I’ve got a baby, you know. Six months. She’s a terror.”

Four years. Ianto’s been doing this since before Jack knew him. Jack wonders where he finds the time. Between Torchwood and Jack himself, the man barely gets any sleep. Jack turns the CD over in his hand and heads outside. 

Twenty minutes later, Ianto shuffles out of the door, head down and windbreaker pulled tight around his chest. He waves a weak goodbye to the other men and watches them pull away in a beat-up sedan. 

“So,” Jack says brightly, pushing off the wall. Ianto flinches. 

“How did you find me?” Ianto asks. Jack wiggles his mobile and Ianto sighs. “You could have just asked.”

“Would you have told me?” Jack wraps an arm around his shoulder and steers him toward the SUV. He’s half frozen through and Ianto’s starting to shiver. He smells like sweat and smoke and familiar cologne. Ianto pins him with a dark look. “My point exactly.”

“Please don’t tell Owen.” Ianto twists his fedora between his hands. His hair sticks up in odd angles. “He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

Jack grabs his coat from the back and pulls it on before sliding into the driver seat. He moves to put the CD into the radio, but Ianto smacks his hand before he can press play. Jack purses his lips, but Ianto doesn’t relent.

“So,” Jack says again. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Nope.” Ianto clips his seatbelt and looks out the window. He’s looking younger and younger every moment. It’s strange and amusing all at once. 

“Why not? Because I have to say, I’m impressed.” 

“If you would stop now, that would be good.” Ianto closes his eyes and rests his head against the window. “That’s enough embarrassment for one night.” 

“If that’s what you look like embarrassed, I’d love to see you mortified.” Jack rests a hand on Ianto’s knee and is pleased when he isn’t immediately shrugged off. “I was starting to think you had a hot young thing on the side.” Ianto rolls his head towards him and glowers. Jack beams. 

“When would I have time to get a hot young thing? On weevil hunts? Yes, nice to meet you. Pardon me while I shoot.” Ianto lets his legs fall open and Jack’s hand slides up his thigh. “Not my thing.”

“Didn’t think this would be your thing, either.” Jack presses play. The music is just as loud recorded, but he can mostly make out the words. Ianto pulls a face but doesn’t turn it off. “I figured you’d be a jazz man.”

“Can’t stand the stuff,” Ianto says, nose crunched and eyebrows furrowed. Jack laughs. Ianto’s voice thrums through the speakers, rumbling and dangerous. Jack’s going to play this while they fuck, and not feel a single bit of shame for it. 

“When do you play again?” Jack asks. He licks the damp curve of Ianto’s jaw. 

“Next Friday,” Ianto says, voice strained. 

“Does the partner get put on the guest list?” Jack asks. He tucks his thumb into Ianto’s waistband and pulls him in as best as he can. The SUV isn’t the best place for making out, but Jack’s willing to get creative. “Can I be your groupie?”

“If there’s a single wolf whistle, I’ll throw a bottle at your head,” Ianto mumbles against his mouth. He tastes a bit like beer. Jack chases it shamelessly. 

“No more mysterious sneaking off?” He asks, tugging at the collar of Ianto’s shirt. 

“Jealous?” 

“You bet.” Jack pulls back and cranks the radio. 

He’s not going to let Ianto live this down, either.


End file.
